


The Color of Love

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Backstory, Developing Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Non-Linear Narrative, Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8722024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Viktor reminisces to how he got Makkachin, and compares the differences between the love he has for his pet and the love he has for Yuuri.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Long notes section, sorry!!
> 
> This fic takes place around the events of episodes 8 and 9, and it contains slight spoilers! It features my own story of how Viktor got Makkachin, and a lot of his thoughts on his developing relationship with Yuuri and how he feels for him!
> 
> In this fic, the story of how Viktor got Makkachin is completely 100% based on how I got my own dog, who is a (half) poodle named Honey! So, based on a true story, haha. 
> 
> I tried to remain as in character as possible, and I hope I did a good job at it.
> 
> There is a very minor original character for plot's sake, but mostly it is Viktor and Makkachin and Yuuri.
> 
> I hope whoever is reading this likes this fic! If you do like it, comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3

The venom-black of nightmares is Viktor’s least favorite color-- his favorite is the chocolate brown of poodles, of Valentine’s day candy, and of Yuuri’s eyes. He’s seen so very much reflected in those eyes’ surfaces, tears have pooled and spilled over their lower lids to trickle down Yuuri’s face in the uneven, jagged paths tears pave for reasons Viktor has never understood, excitement has gleamed within them as their edges crinkle and curve in happiness more pure than Viktor has ever witnessed another human being be capable of, pupils have dilated in passion centimeters away from Viktor’s own as their noses brush and his heart races and swells with emotions he has only just begun to familiarize himself with. There has never been anything but warmth in Yuuri’s eyes, nor the body that presses flush against him in an embrace of farewell, and as those eyes train themselves to him one last time before departure they are soft with compassion, compassion and understanding and uncertainty and sorrow in a whirl of empathy that leaves Viktor’s limbs heavy as though they are searching for a saving grace in the stability of Yuuri’s. Yuuri pulls away first, nudges him forward with a bump of his shoulder and Viktor turns around, lips drawn in a line as he leaves one instance of his favorite color for another.

 

The spontaneity of becoming Makkachin’s owner had been overwhelming and exhilarating-- after all, the first phone call had been exchanged just days prior. Proceeding that, however, had been another conversation, a conversation with a friend Viktor is no longer in touch with despite him having been the primary link to the dog who would become Viktor’s companion, and eventual reason to abandon Yuuri in Russia to return to a country that wasn’t his own.

“Viktor, the last time you had a dog was about a year ago, right?” Grateful his friend hadn’t spoken of-- only implied-- the untimely sickness that had cut his previous poodle’s life short of what it should have been, Viktor nodded, swallowing against the pain in his chest in attempt to dismiss it as quickly as could be. There was a chance he could become distraught if his dog’s death occupied his mind for too long, and distress was simply an unnecessary emotion. As he had come to be cognizant of as a skater, emotional turmoil over loss of any sort would only prevent future gains.

“Yes, it’s been just over a year.”

The man across the diner table from him took a sip of his coffee before reaching into his coat pocket to pull out his phone. Viktor cocked his head slightly, raising his eyebrows as his friend tapped and swiped at its screen. Only after the phone had been turned his way to expose what was on its screen did Viktor’s expression change, eyebrows raising higher and mouth gaping in delight, giving all the impression of an ecstatic young child.

“What an adorable dog!” A digital photo showed a young poodle tilting his head at the 

camera, tongue hanging out of his mouth, fur not quite yet curled as an adult poodle’s was, instead waved and ruffled. Viktor guessed the dog to be approximately a month or two old, though he was slightly larger than other poodle puppies Viktor had seen.

“A friend of mine is a veterinarian, and recently adopted this dog under unfortunate circumstances. Apparently, an older woman came to the vet with him, and he was extremely sick. The dog had to stay in the veterinary hospital for over a week, and was near death from a type of bronchitis.” 

His friend paused to shake his head disapprovingly. “You know, those puppy mills are a real problem. Pet stores get those dogs by the dozen, and a lot of times they end up really sick after they’re adopted from poor conditions in the breeding areas. It’s real sad, honestly. What’s even sadder, though, is that when the dog got better-- and he sure did, my friend’s a genius veterinarian, you know?-- he called for the woman to pick him up, and she just never came.”

Viktor gasped. “That’s horrible! I can’t imagine such a cruel owner leaving her dog with a stranger… A puppy nonetheless.” 

“Yeah, and had it been any other vet who knows what would have happened. But this guy, what does he do? He takes the dog in even though he already has four other rescue dogs. And three kids! Apparently the dog’s real sweet, but he needs a new home.”

A smile crossed Viktor’s face, though his eyes shone not only with anticipation, but with anger at the old woman and condolence for the poor dog. “He doesn’t have a home yet, right?” he asked, tentative of raising his hopes when, in fact, there might already be someone awaiting taking the puppy home. 

“Nope. I’ll give you the vet’s number-- if you talk to him he’ll likely let you take the puppy. And I’ll throw in a good word for your reputation as an attentive owner, as well.”

  
  


He remembers with all the clarity of the crisp fall day it had happened the moment he had first stroked a palm along the curls of Makkachin’s fur. There had been only the slightest of catches at the pads of his fingers as he did so, and the fur was long enough that he was able to nestle his fingers in it to come into contact with the warm skin underneath. An enthused puppy sat before him in his apartment-- the first dog to have done so in over a year. Makkachin’s tail was wagging frantically back and forth low behind him, a mannerism of which Viktor knew to signify nervous excitement. Likely, the dog could sense that the man petting him with a smile wide enough it would have split Viktor’s lip had he not been wearing an excess of balm was no threat-- he might even be a friend. 

Viktor’s chest felt inflated, his heart enlarged by the unconditional love, trust, and support he-- though ridiculous as it seemed-- had only yet been able to feel in the presence of a beloved pet, such as any good owner would. There were people he trusted, people he had loved, people he had support from, but no one friend or family member was able to elicit the same or similar sensations as he felt for his dogs. Of course, he imagined they’d be slightly different when transferred to a human being, but he had not yet found someone he wanted to protect, to encourage, to prioritize the happiness and health of. He was sure one day he would; however, the poodle running circles around his apartment, sniffing every last centimeter of carpet and furniture, was more than enough for the time being.

“You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?” Viktor’s smile condensed and dipped into something akin to a child’s pout, lower lip extended under his upper while his head tilted to the side and his brows creased. The dog paused his pawing at an armchair to turn to Viktor, cocking his head in likeness to Viktor, who clicked his tongue and chuckled.

“Look at you, so full of energy when you were so sick a few weeks ago! You must be confused, looking at me like that. ‘Who is this person, and why am I here?’-- That’s what you’re probably thinking.”

Smile returning, Viktor whistled in command for Makkachin to come. The poodle bounded over, rear end wiggling as he pranced just in front of Viktor, not quite close enough for him to reach. Every time he would make move to touch the dog, Makkachin would leap backward out of reach-- he seemed to see it as some sort of game, or a test perhaps. Poodles were said to be the most intelligent breed of dogs, Viktor recalled.

“Well, you’re here because you needed a home.” Moving as quickly as he could, Viktor leaned forward and caught Makkachin as he was backing away, wrapping his hands around the dog’s stomach and lifting him up to his own chest. Dark eyes stared into his own ice blue ones, near-black but so far from the pitch darkness of nightmares of terrible things happening to Makkachin that would plague him in the weeks to come-- of Makkachin growing ill once more, of Makkachin dying in various, increasingly gruesome and gory ways, of Makkachin feeling lonely or neglected, of Makkachin getting lost and being unable to find his way home.

“This is your home now,” he told Makkachin, though after a moment he corrected himself, amending his statement by matter of a single word.

“ _ I’m _ your home now.” As though the dog understood, Viktor was greeted in response by a long lick up his face. He wrinkled his nose, and then laughed-- it had been his first kiss since his last partner broke up with him.

“Good kisses, Makkachin. Good boy.”

 

He had been right, Viktor thinks as he disembarks the plane with Makkachin, whom he had been immensely relieved to find well and breathing upon his arrival in Japan. It  _ was _ different-- caring for a dog and caring for a person. For a lover. Reciprocation existed in an entirely other manner, and though he had known this, the experience of truly loving someone and them loving him is fulfilling in such a way it continues exceeds his highest of expectations at every corner turn. Never before has he craved so deeply for another’s improvement, another’s success, another’s well-being, another’s pleasure. It is as foreign to him as Japan, and he has slipped many times navigating the ropes of an unknown course. He has not fallen, however, and despite the destination being unbeknownst to him he keeps climbing, hands growing steadier with each pull. 

As he walks briskly through the airport, his mind isn’t on the scores of the competition, but of Yuuri’s emotional state. The other had been the one to urge him back to Japan, and he had done so, despite being in internal turmoil over leaving Yuuri in Yakov’s care and being unable to witness his performance. Had the other flubbed his jumps, enough so he was disqualified from advancing… Though it isn’t the advancement he is worried about, not on a selfish level. It’s how the placings will be affecting Yuuri, Yuuri who right at this moment might have tears spilling from his eyes, who right at this moment might be hunched over, hiding from the press, who might be trembling in stress and self-loathing for losing his chance at the Grand Prix. 

It’s different, because Yuuri has hopes and dreams Viktor can help him pursue. It’s different because Yuuri’s emotions are complex, and it’s not so easy as a belly rub or a bone to console his sadness or anxieties. It’s different because there _is_ communication; Yuuri can speak what is on his mind, Yuuri can inform Viktor of what he wants and needs, Yuuri can express what Viktor is and isn’t doing efficiently or effectively, Yuuri can _tell Viktor he loves him_ , even if he hasn’t done so explicitly yet. It’s different because he’s Yuuri, and Viktor has no doubt no other relationship would have left him stumbling so blindly-- though he is content with the blindness, he knows the cataracts will clear over time-- as this one. It’s different, and though he is Makkachin’s home, Yuuri has become _his_ home.

Viktor catches Yuuri’s dark-eyed gaze through the glass windows of the airport, and he begins to run, Makkachin alongside him. It’s ironic, he thinks as he maneuvers through a small crowd of people to get to Yuuri as fast as he can,  that red represents the heart’s feelings for many people. Because for him, chocolate brown is the color of love.


End file.
